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  Bob complied. It took the better part of the morning, and it required ladder work and another clever placement of ropes and pulleys, and it strained Bob's back something fierce, but by lunchtime, he had the man down. Using a wheelbarrow, he finally got him inside and into the room Phyllis had so carefully prepared, a room that had been empty and locked going on three decades.

  "Now what?" Bob asked her when they'd arranged the body, surprisingly limp and soft and not nearly as bad smelling as he'd expected, in the middle of the white-sheeted bed. Over the bed a hand-crafted animal mobile had been hung.

  "We must seek His forgiveness."

  "Meantime, we got ourselves a rottin' body. 'Fore long, it's gonna stink something awful."

  Phyllis struck him then, the back of her hand across his mouth. A pencil of blood trickled down his chin. He turned away.

  "Shame," she said. "Sinner. Does He not promise us Resurrection? Let us pray."

  Bob and Phyllis were not seen the fifth and sixth days, a Friday and a Saturday. The shades to their house were drawn, and a hand-lettered sign the words CLOSED TODAY appeared on the gas pumps next to the one that proclaimed CASH ONLY. Sheriff Thompson noticed that the body was gone, of course, and he came knocking on their door, and when there was no answer, and when he could not peek through the shades, he got back in his cruiser and drove away. First thing Monday morning, he was going to get a search warrant. He was going to go through that place with a fine-toothed comb. He was going to make some arrests. He was going to raise holy hell. He was the sheriff. Things had gone far enough.

  At dawn the seventh day, Sunday, a new body was observed on the pole. It was Bob's, and the coroner who eventually examined it concluded that he had died up there, although how that could be was a mystery he reckoned would never be solved.

  Before the sun had climbed over the Berkshire Hills, the house and gas station went up in flames. The flagpole, and Bob, were not touched. There were no bodies found in the ashes of the house. No sign of Phyllis. Only a report that she had been seen leaving town in Bob's Chevy wagon, a dark-haired young man behind the wheel.

  By Bizarre Hands

  For Scott Cupp

  When the traveling preacher heard about the Widow Case and her retarded girl, he set out in his black Dodge to get over there before Halloween night.

  Preacher Judd, as he called himself — though his name was really Billy Fred Williams — had this thing for retarded girls, due to the fact that his sister had been simple-headed, and his mama always said it was a shame she was probably going to burn in hell like a pan of biscuits forgot in the oven, just on account of not having a full set of brains.

  This was a thing he had thought on considerable, and this considerable thinking made it so he couldn't pass up the idea of baptizing and giving some God-training to female retards. It was something he wanted to do in the worst way, though he had to admit there wasn't any burning desire in him to do the same for boys or men or women that were half-wits, but due to his sister having been one, he certainly had this thing for girl simples.

  And he had this thing for Halloween, because that was the night the Lord took his sister to hell, and he might have taken her to glory had she had any bible-learning or God-sense. But she didn't have a drop, and it was partly his own fault, because he knew about God and could sing some hymns pretty good. But he'd never turned a word of benediction or gospel music in her direction. Not one word. Nor had his mama, and his papa wasn't around to do squat.

  The old man ran off with a bucktoothed laundry woman that used to go house to house taking in wash and bringing it back the next day, but when she took in their wash, she took in Papa too, and she never brought either of them back. And if that wasn't bad enough, the laundry contained everything they had in the way of decent clothes, including a couple of pairs of nice dress pants and some pin-striped shirts like niggers wear to funerals. This left him with one old pair of faded overalls that he used to wear to slop the hogs before the critters killed and ate Granny and they had to get rid of them because they didn't want to eat nothing that had eaten somebody they knew. So, it wasn't bad enough Papa ran off with a beaver-toothed wash woman and his sister was a drooling retard, he now had only the one pair of ugly, old overalls to wear to school, and this gave the other kids three things to tease him about, and they never missed a chance to do it. Well, four things. He was kind of ugly too.

  It got tiresome.

  Preacher Judd could remember nights waking up with his sister crawled up in the bed alongside him, lying on her back, eyes wide open, her face bathed in cool moonlight, picking her nose and eating what she found, while he rested on one elbow and tried to figure why she was that way.

  He finally gave up figuring, decided that she ought to have some fun, and he could have some fun too. Come Halloween, he got him a bar of soap for marking up windows and a few rocks for knocking out some, and he made his sister and himself ghost-suits out of old sheets in which he cut mouth and eye holes.

  This was her fifteenth year and she had never been trick-or-treating. He had designs that she should go this time, and they did, and later after they'd done it, he walked her back home, and later yet, they found her out back of the house in her ghost suit, only the sheet had turned red because her head was bashed in with something and she had bled out like an ankle-hung hog. And someone had turned her trick-or-treat sack — the handle of which was still clutched in her fat grip — inside out and taken every bit of candy she'd gotten from the neighbors.

  The sheriff came out, pulled up the sheet and saw that she was naked under it, and he looked her over and said that she looked raped to him, and that she had been killed by bizarre hands.

  Bizarre hands never did make sense to Preacher Judd, but he loved the sound of it, and never did let it slip away, and when he would tell about his poor sister, naked under the sheet, her brains smashed out and her trick-or-treat bag turned inside out, he'd never miss ending the story with the sheriff's line about her having died by bizarre hands.

  It had a kind of ring to it.

  He parked his Dodge by the roadside, got out and walked up to the Widow Case's, sipping on a Frostie root beer. But even though it was late October, the Southern sun was as hot as Satan's ass and the root beer was anything but frosty.

  Preacher Judd was decked out in his black suit, white shirt and black loafers with black and white checked socks, and he had on his black hat, which was short-brimmed and made him look, he thought, exactly like a traveling preacher ought to look.

  Widow Case was out at the well, cranking a bucket of water, and nearby, running hell out of a hill of ants with a stick she was waggling, was the retarded girl, and Preacher Judd thought she looked remarkably like his sister.

  He came up, took off his hat and held it over his chest as though he were pressing his heart into proper place, and smiled at the widow with all his gold-backed teeth.

  Widow Case put one hand on a bony hip, used the other to prop the bucket of water on the well-curbing. She looked like a shaved weasel, Preacher Judd thought, though her ankles weren't shaved a bit and were perfectly weasel-like. The hair there was thick and black enough to be mistaken for thin socks at a distance.

  "Reckon you've come far enough," she said. "You look like one of them Jehova Witnesses or such. Or one of them kind that run around with snakes in their teeth and hop to nigger music."

  "No ma'am, I don't hop to nothing, and last snake I seen I run over with my car."

  "You here to take up money for missionaries to give to them starving African niggers? If you are, forget it. I don't give to the niggers around here, sure ain't giving to no hungry foreign niggers that can't even speak English."

  "Ain't collecting money for nobody. Not even myself."

  "Well, I ain't seen you around here before, and I don't know you from white rice. You might be one of them mash murderers for all I know."

  "No ma'm, I ain't a mash murderer, and I ain't from around here. I'm from East Texas."


  She gave him a hard look. "Lots of niggers there."

  "Place is rotten with them. Can't throw a dog tick without you've hit a burr-head in the noggin'. That's one of the reasons I'm traveling through here, so I can talk to white folks about God. Talking to niggers is like," and he lifted a hand to point, "talking to that well-curbing there, only that well-curbing is smarter and a lot less likely to sass, since it ain't expecting no civil rights or a chance to crowd up with our young'ns in schools. It knows its place and it stays there, and that's something for that well-curbing, if it ain't nothing for niggers."

  "Amen."

  Preacher Judd was feeling pretty good now. He could see she was starting to eat out of his hand. He put on his hat and looked at the girl. She was on her elbows now, her head down and her butt up. The dress she was wearing was way too short and had broken open in back from her having outgrown it. Her panties were dirt-stained and there was gravel, like little BBs hanging off of them. He thought she had legs that looked strong enough to wrap around an alligator's neck and choke it to death.

  "Cindereller there," the widow said, noticing he was watching, "ain't gonna have to worry about going to school with niggers. She ain't got the sense of a nigger. She ain't got no sense at all. A dead rabbit knows more than she knows. All she does is play around all day, eat bugs and such and drool. In case you haven't noticed, she's simple."

  "Yes ma'm, I noticed. Had a sister the same way. She got killed on a Halloween night, was raped and murdered and had her trick-or-treat candy stolen, and it was done, the sheriff said, by bizarre hands."

  "No kiddin'?"

  Preacher Judd held up a hand. "No kiddin'. She went on to hell, I reckon, 'cause she didn't have any God talk in her. And retard or not, she deserved some so she wouldn't have to cook for eternity. I mean, think on it. How hot it must be down there, her boiling in her own sweat, and she didn't do nothing, and it's mostly my fault 'cause I didn't teach her a thing about The Lord Jesus and his daddy, God."

  Widow Case thought that over. "Took her Halloween candy too, huh?"

  "Whole kitandkaboodle. Rape, murder and candy theft, one fatal swoop. That's why I hate to see a young'n like yours who might not have no Word of God in her…Is she without training?"

  "She ain't even toilet trained. You couldn't perch her on the outdoor convenience if she was sick and her manage to hit the hole. She can't do nothing that don't make a mess. You can't teach her a thing. Half the time she don't even know her name." As if to prove this, Widow Case called, "Cindereller."

  Cinderella had one eye against the ant hill now and was trying to look down the hole. Her butt was way up and she was rocking forward on her knees.

  "See," said Widow Case, throwing up her hands. "She's worse than any little ole baby, and it ain't no easy row to hoe with her here and me not having a man around to do the heavy work."

  "I can see that…By the way, call me Preacher Judd…And can I help you tote that bucket up to the house there?"

  "Well now," said Widow Case, looking all the more like a weasel, "I'd appreciate that kindly."

  He got the bucket and they walked up to the house. Cinderella followed, and pretty soon she was circling around him like she was a shark closing in for the kill, the circles each time getting a mite smaller. She did this by running with her back bent and her knuckles almost touching the ground. Ropes of saliva dripped out of her mouth.

  Watching her, Preacher Judd got a sort of warm feeling all over. She certainly reminded him of his sister. Only she had liked to scoop up dirt, dog mess and stuff as she ran, and toss it at him. It wasn't a thing he thought he'd missed until just that moment, but now the truth was out and he felt a little teary-eyed. He half-hoped Cinderella would pick up something and throw it on him.

  The house was a big, drafty thing circled by a wide flower bed that didn't look to have been worked in years. A narrow porch ran halfway around it, and the front porch had man-tall windows on either side of the door.

  Inside, Preacher Judd hung his hat on one of the foil wrapped rabbit ears perched on top of an old Sylvania TV set, and followed the widow and her child into the kitchen.

  The kitchen had big iron frying pans hanging on wall pegs, and there was a framed embroidery that read GOD WATCHES OVER THIS HOUSE. It had been faded by sunlight coming through the window over the sink.

  Preacher Judd sat the bucket on the ice box — the old sort that used real ice — then they all went back to the living room. Widow Case told him to sit down and asked him if he'd like some ice-tea.

  "Yes, this bottle of Frostie ain't so good." He took the bottle out of his coat pocket and gave it to her.

  Widow Case held it up and squinted at the little line of liquid in the bottom. "You gonna want this?"

  "No ma'am, just pour what's left out and you can have the deposit." He took his Bible from his other pocket and opened it. "You don't mind if I try and read a verse or two to your Cindy, do you?"

  "You make an effort on that while I fix us some tea. And I'll bring some things for ham sandwiches, too."

  "That would be right nice. I could use a bite."

  Widow Case went to the kitchen and Preacher Judd smiled at Cinderella. "You know tonight's Halloween, Cindy?"

  Cinderella pulled up her dress, picked a stray ant off her knee and ate it.

  "Halloween is my favorite time of the year," he continued. "That may be strange for a preacher to say, considering it's a devil thing, but I've always loved it. It just does something to my blood. It's like a tonic for me, you know?"

  She didn't know. Cinderella went over to the TV and turned it on.

  Preacher Judd got up, turned it off. "Let's don't run the Sylvania right now, baby child," he said. "Let's you and me talk about God."

  Cinderella squatted down in front of the set, not seeming to notice it had been cut off. She watched the dark screen like the White Rabbit considering a plunge down the rabbit hole.

  Glancing out the window, Preacher Judd saw that the sun looked like a dropped cherry snowcone melting into the clay road that led out to Highway 80, and already the tumble bug of night was rolling in blue-black and heavy. A feeling of frustration went over him, because he knew he was losing time and he knew what he had to do.

  Opening his Bible, he read a verse and Cinderella didn't so much as look up until he finished and said a prayer and ended it with "Amen."

  "Uhman," she said suddenly.

  Preacher Judd jumped with surprise, slammed the Bible shut and dunked it in his pocket. "Well, well now," he said with delight, "that does it. She's got some Bible training."

  Widow Case came in with the tray of fixings. "What's that?"

  "She said some of a prayer," Preacher Judd said. "That cinches it. God don't expect much from retards, and that ought to do for keeping her from burning in hell." He practically skipped over to the woman and her tray, stuck two fingers in a glass of tea, whirled and sprinkled the drops on Cinderella's head. Cinderella held out a hand as if checking for rain.

  Preacher Judd bellowed out. "I pronounce you baptized. In the name of God, The Son, and The Holy Ghost. Amen."

  "Well, I'll swan," the widow said. "That there tea works for baptizing?" She sat the tray on the coffee table.

  "It ain't the tea water, it's what's said and who says it that makes it take… Consider that gal legal baptized…Now, she ought to have some fun too, don't you think? Not having a full head of brains don't mean she shouldn't have some fun."

  "She likes what she does with them ants," Widow Case said.

  "I know, but I'm talking about something special. It's Halloween. Time for young folks to have fun, even if they are retards. In fact, retards like it better than anyone else. They love this stuff…A thing my sister enjoyed was dressing up like a ghost."

  "Ghost?" Widow Case was seated on the couch, making the sandwiches. She had a big butcher knife and she was using it to spread mustard on bread and cut ham slices.

  "We took this old sheet, you see, cut some mouth an
d eye holes in it, then we wore them and went trick-or-treating."

  "I don't know that I've got an old sheet. And there ain't a house close enough for trick-or-treatin' at."

  "I could take her around in my car. That would be fun, I think. I'd like to see her have fun, wouldn't you? She'd be real scary too under that sheet, big as she is and liking to run stooped down with her knuckles dragging."

  To make his point, he bent forward, humped his back, let his hands dangle and made a face he thought was in imitation of Cinderella.

  "She would be scary, I admit that," Widow Case said. "Though that sheet over her head would take some away from it. Sometimes she scares me when I don't got my mind on her, you know? Like if I'm napping in there on the bed, and I sorta open my eyes, and there she is, looking at me like she looks at them ants. I declare, she looks like she'd like to take a stick and whirl it around on me."

  "You need a sheet, a white one, for a ghost-suit."

  "Now maybe it would be nice for Cindereller to go out and have some fun." She finished making the sandwiches and stood up. "I'll see what I can find."

  "Good, good," Preacher Judd said rubbing his hands together. "You can let me make the outfit. I'm real good at it."

  While Widow Case went to look for a sheet, Preacher Judd ate one of the sandwiches, took one and handed it down to Cinderella. Cinderella promptly took the bread off of it, ate the meat, and laid the mustard sides down on her knees.

  When the meat was chewed, she took to the mustard bread, cramming it into her mouth and smacking her lips loudly.

  "Is that good, sugar?" Preacher Judd asked.

  Cinderella smiled some mustard bread at him, and he couldn't help but think the mustard looked a lot like baby shit, and he had to turn his head away.

  "This do?" Widow Case said, coming into the room with a slightly yellowed sheet and a pair of scissors.

  "That's the thing," Preacher Judd said, taking a swig from his ice tea. He set the tea down and called to Cinderella.